


Silents

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Humor, M/M, Series: The Nonsense Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 02:19:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blair?  Not talking?  Impossible. . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silents

## Silents

by Mona Ramsey

* * *

"Silents"  
by MonaR.  
monaram@yahoo.com 

The walk outside from the doctor's office to the truck was a quiet one. Jim opened up the driver's side door and climbed in, doing up his seat belt, then waited until Blair had done the same before he started the truck up. Blair was just sitting there, slumped a little to one side, with a dejected look on his face. Jim bit his lips to keep from smiling out loud, and waited. /. . . five, four, three, two - / 

Blair sighed, heroically. 

/I'm a little off./ "You okay, Chief?" 

Blue eyes turned towards him, wearing the weight of the entire world. Jim didn't think he'd ever seen a puppy with blue eyes, but if he ever did come across one, he'd have to adopt it and call it 'Blair'. His forlorn Guide shook his head. 

"It's not going to be _that_ bad," Jim pointed out, then slid the truck into gear, pulling out of the parking lot. 

Blair glared at him. 

"If you'd gone to the doctor sooner - " 

Blair glared harder. Jim swore he could _hear_ the teeth grinding as Blair struggled to remain silent. 

He bit his lip harder, funnelling his teeth into the side of his cheek for good measure. He could taste coppery blood, but at least the hysterical chuckle that was fighting its way out into the air was effectively cut off. Reason wasn't doing any good; laughing at Blair might get him killed. 

Or, at the very least, cut off. 

Still, the urge to gloat a _little_ was very hard to ignore. He opened his mouth to speak again, and then caught a glance of Blair out of his peripheral vision, and thought better of it. /Really, Ellison, it's not as though Blair _wanted_ to get laryngitis. . ./ "These seventy-two hours of forced silence are going to go by like _nothing_ , Chief, and then you'll be back to your old form, as good as new." 

Blair gave him a hopeful glance, and Jim grinned at him, encouragingly. At least, it _felt_ encouragingly. Unfortunately, from Blair's point of view, it looked more than a little smug. Blair glared at him, harder than ever, and thought /Bite me,/ across the little bit of space in the cab between them. 

Jim was slightly taken aback. If he wasn't mistaken, Blair just swore at him. And not in the old, romantic, good-cop/bad-cop foreplay way. He sighed. 

Blair just shook his head, and turned to look out the window. 

Jim, meanwhile, was biting his lip, again. /I'm gonna have a damn hole in my cheek before these three days are over. . ./ 

* * *

Blair sat on the couch and clicked on the tv as soon as they got into the loft. The silence between them was more than unnatural; it was getting to be oppressive. 

Jim threw his keys down and took off his coat. "You want something to eat, Chief?" he called out. 

Brown curls shook from side-to-side at him. 

"The doctor said - " 

The curls were emphasized this time by the addition of a single finger, which punctuated Blair's thoughts on the matter. 

/Not bad at the non-verbal communication, there, Chief,/ Jim thought. "I'm going to have something." 

The curls shrugged at him, unconcerned. 

"Fine," he said, under his breath, "see if I'm nice to you the _next_ time you're sick." 

He opened up a tin of tomatoes, chopped up all of the vegetables that he could find in the house, including about five cloves of garlic and two onions which he sauted until they were soft and just barely golden, then threw in mushrooms, zucchini, celery, green and red peppers, a chili pepper, stirred in two tins of tomato paste and a couple of cups of water, and set it all to simmer. He found a tin of kidney beans hiding in the back of a cupboard and drained and rinsed the beans well, prepared to dump them into the soup for the last ten minutes. The final garlic clove that they had in the place he mashed up with a couple of tablespoons of butter and spread over half a loaf of crusty bread, wrapped it in foil, and threw it into the oven. 

It all took less than forty-five minutes to do, and still, Blair hadn't moved a muscle. He was staring resolutely at the television, his coat and shoes still on. 

Jim opened the fridge and grabbed a beer, and then put it back in. He took the old filter out of the coffee maker, dumped it, rinsed it out well, then put in five bags of peppermint tea, and poured water through for a pot of herbal tea. The hot, aromatic drink would be good for Blair's inflamed throat. He poured out two mugs and walked over to the couch, setting one down in front of Blair and taking the other with him as he sat in one of the chairs. "So, what's on?" 

Blair shook his head. 

"Chief?" 

Blair looked at him for the first time since they'd left the truck, and started to sniffle. 

Jim came over to the couch. "Blair, what is it? Chief - " 

Blair grabbed on to his waist and pulled him down, holding on to him for dear life. Jim was flabbergasted; he didn't have a clue why Blair was so upset. He didn't have any choice but to soothe him the best he could, waiting until Blair gave him a hint. 

Finally, the sniffling stopped and Blair blew his nose. "Okay, Chief, spill it - what was that all about?" 

Blair looked at him, opening his mouth and then shutting it. Spying a piece of paper on the coffee table, he grabbed it and a pen and wrote: 'Sorry' 

"I _am_ sorry, Chief - I didn't mean to tease you \- " 

Blair shook his head emphatically, and pointed at his chest. 

"Oh, _you're_ sorry. Why?" Jim grinned. "You've told me to bite you before, Chief." 

Blair's mouth opened in shock. 

"I'm psychic, Blair. Haven't you learned that by now? Besides, you've told me worse." He chuckled. "And, lord knows, _I've_ told _you_ worse. You can't possibly have forgotten the first six months that we lived together. I thought we were going to have to kill each other, for a while there." 

Blair looked sheepish, and shook his head. 

"You're sick and you're not allowed to talk. So, what we have to do is engage in a little non-verbal communication, that's all." Jim bent his head down to give his roommate and fellow hot-head a kiss, surprised when Blair pushed him firmly away. 

Blair wrote on his piece of paper. 'Sick.' 

"I know you're sick, Blair." 

He rolled his eyes, and added, 'You'. 

"You've been sick for a week, and I haven't gotten anything. We live, eat, work, and breathe in each other's space practically twenty-four hours a day. If I haven't gotten it by now, I'm not going to, believe me." He paused, and added, "Besides, if it means getting cut off from kissing you, I'll take the chance, and if I _do_ get sick, you won't hear a word from me, promise." He grinned again, wickedly. 

Blair tried to look evil but failed, and just shook his head, unable to suppress his smile. He didn't protest when Jim tried to kiss him again, giving himself over to the insistent lips of his lover. He was grinning when Jim let him go, and wrote 'Non-verbal, eh?' 

Jim laughed. "You're damn right, Chief. I've barely begun to plumb the depths of silent communication." 

* * *

They ate dinner and drank the pot of tea - peppermint and chili not as odd a combination as Jim had thought when he'd first made it, and watched television, Blair pausing every once in a while to write something on his piece of paper, which quickly became filled and had to be flipped over. Jim chuckled when he did that. Apparently, the guy was just as talkative when he _couldn't_ talk as he was when he _could_. And he'd thought that they'd have a problem communicating. 

Finally, when the late news was over, he reached and switched off the television with the remote. They sat there for a moment in the silence, and then Blair smiled at him, the sweetest smile Jim could remember seeing in a while. He got up off the couch and walked to the stereo, sliding in a cd and hitting 'play'. The light strains of a jazz combo filled the loft, and he went through the room, turning off the lights as he went. Finally, he stood in front of Jim, whose eyes had followed him around from light to light, and extended a hand, raising his eyebrow by way of invitation. He knew perfectly well that Jim could see him as clearly as if all the lights were still on, while he was relying on the streaming moonlight through the window. 

Jim took his hand and stood, wrapping his arms around Blair and swaying with him slowly to the music. It was dark in the loft, quiet except for the soft music and the sounds of their bodies moving together. It was nice, a change from the usual non-stop conversation they usually engaged in - not just Blair, but Jim, too. They'd grown used to talking almost all the time, hardly ever taking the time to just _be_ together, quietly, always needing to fill the space around them with discussions, arguments, professions of love. But real love didn't need things like words; at least, not _all_ the time. 

Blair rested his head on Jim's chest, wrapping his arms around the big guy's waist. This was good, this quiet. The thought of not being able to speak for three days, on threat of an even worse diagnosis than laryngitis, had initially filled him with panic. It was terrible for someone whose idea of self-identity was so firmly an intellectual one. And it reminded him again of how much _he_ relied on his senses, too, on having the use of all of them. He'd felt blinded without his tongue, deafened; but now, he saw how it actually could be a _good_ thing. It made him pay attention harder. 

And it made him more aware of the incredible guy who was madly in love with him. Jim was _so_ great - putting up with things that would have him out on his ass a thousand times over, with anyone else. Not that the guy was a saint, by any means; he was infuriating and maddening in equal doses, but he was good, truly good. Strong. Capable. And, with some help, he was even opening up. That last thought made Blair smile. 

Jim felt his lover smile, Blair's cheeks pressing against his chest, and he smiled, too. Thank goodness the guy was putting this in perspective, now. After all, it wasn't as if he'd been told that he'd _never_ get to talk again; it was only for three days. But still, that was a major life-change where Blair was concerned, and Jim knew it only too well. He talked to cover his insecurities, his fear, his nervousness, but that wasn't all - it showed his quick brain and his ready humour, too. There was nothing that Jim loved to hear more than Blair's laugh, nothing that he'd rather see than the smile of his Guide the first thing in the morning and the last thing at night. And if he wanted to get a little cranky over being sick, well, he had a right to, didn't he? It was only natural. 

"Blair?" 

Blair leaned back, opening his eyes and blinking a question. 

"Bed?" 

That got an instant reaction, and, happily, the one Jim wanted. Blair smiled, lazily, looking up from heavy-lidded eyes. Jim felt his breath catch in his chest, knowing, without a single word from Blair, _exactly_ what he was being told. That slow, seductive smile was the same one that had captured his heart the very first time he'd seen it. 

They left the cd on, letting it play itself out as they headed up to bed, Jim leading, pulling Blair up behind him. They could still hear the faint strains of the music as they undressed each other, dropping clothing to the floor and tumbling side-by-side into the bed. Jim found himself holding back his own words, content to let his mouth and hands do all the speaking necessary, punctuating it with groans that came not from his throat but from deep inside his chest - primal, deeply satisfied moans of pleasure. Blair, always highly verbal even in bed, did the same, skimming over the well-loved body of his dreams with careful attention, listening instead of speaking, taking and giving his pleasure in turn. His shout when he came was the deafening silence of absolute bliss. 

* * *

The music had long since ended before they were still - the utter quiet of the room punctuated by breathing and soft movements against each other. Jim stroked the same place on Blair's back a thousand times, imprinting his touch into the skin until he knew that whatever else he felt in his lifetime would be part reality, part Blair-memory. He felt the sweep of lashes against his skin as Blair shifted and opened his eyes, smiling up at him. He didn't need words to know what the guy was thinking, at that moment; he wondered if words would ever be as meaningful to him, again. 

Jim opened his mouth to speak, but, instead of the endearment that he intended, he coughed. 

Blair stared at him, aghast. 

Jim coughed again. There was a tickle that he couldn't seem to get rid of. "Uh, Chief, my throat feels kind of funny - " 

Blair just looked at him, then looked away, then looked back, and then raised a fist and punched Jim, hard, in the chest. 

"Ow! What the hell was _that_ for?" 

Blair looked at him, his eyes narrowing and narrowing until Jim thought that they'd disappear entirely into his face. Then, something happened \- Blair opened his mouth, and his eyes widened. No sound came out, and Jim, by looking alone, thought his lover was having some sort of seizure. His body was shaking, and he was gasping, but no sound was emitting from his throat. It was bizarre. 

Finally, when Blair's eyes started to water, Jim pushed him off, furious, and coughed again. Blair lay, flat on his back, still shaking silently, openly weeping, now. 

"Oh, great, Chief," Jim said, giving another irrepressible cough. "Just wonderful. _I_ get sick, and _you_ get hysterics." 

Blair opened his mouth to say something soothing, remembered he wasn't allowed to talk, and started to laugh again. There was something to be said for silence, after all. 

The End  
MonaR.  
monaram@iname.com/monaram@mailcity.com 


End file.
